THE CABIN of Uncle Tom was a small log building, close adjoining to the house, as the negro par excellence designates his masters dwelling. In front it had a neat garden-patch, where, every summer, strawberries, raspberries, and a variety of fruits and vegetables, flourished under careful tending. The whole front of it was covered by a large scarlet bignonia and a native multiflora rose, which, entwisting and interlacing, left scarce a vestige of the rough logs to be seen. Here, also, in summer, various brilliant annuals, such as marigolds, petunias, four-oclocks, found an indulgent corner in which to unfold their splendors, and were the delight and pride of Aunt Chloes heart.

Let us enter the dwelling. The evening meal at the house is over, and Aunt Chloe, who presided over its preparation as head cook, has left to inferior officers in the kitchen the business of clearing away and washing dishes, and come out into her own snug territories, to get her ole mans supper; therefore, doubt not that it is her you see by the fire, presiding with anxious interest over certain frizzling items in a stew-pan, and anon with grave consideration lifting the cover of a bake-kettle, from whence steam forth indubitable intimations of something good. A round, black, shining face is hers, so glossy as to suggest the idea that she might have been washed over with white of eggs, like one of her own tea rusks. Her whole plump countenance beams with satisfaction and contentment from under her well-starched checked turban, bearing on it, however, if we must confess it, a little of that tinge of self-consciousness which becomes the first cook of the neighborhood, as Aunt Chloe was universally held and acknowledged to be.

A cook she certainly was, in the very bone and centre of her soul. Not a chicken or turkey or duck in the barn-yard but looked grave when they saw her approaching, and seemed evidently to be reflecting on their latter end; and certain it was that she was always meditating on trussing, stuffing and roasting, to a degree that was calculated to inspire terror in any reflecting fowl living. Her corn-cake, in all its varieties of hoe-cake, dodgers, muffins, and other species too numerous to mention, was a sublime mystery to all less practised compounders; and she would shake her fat sides with honest pride and merriment, as she would narrate the fruitless efforts that one and another of her compeers had made to attain to her elevation.

The arrival of company at the house, the arranging of dinners and suppers in style, awoke all the energies of her soul; and no sight was more welcome to her than a pile of travelling trunks launched on the verandah, for then she foresaw fresh efforts and fresh triumphs.

In one corner of it stood a bed, covered neatly with a snowy spread; and by the side of it was a piece of carpeting, of some considerable size. On this piece of carpeting Aunt Chloe took her stand, as being decidedly in the upper walks of life; and it and the bed by which it lay, and the whole corner, in fact, were treated with distinguished consideration, and made, so far as possible, sacred from the marauding inroads and desecrations of little folks. In fact, that corner was the drawing-room of the establishment. In the other corner was a bed of much humbler pretensions, and evidently designed for use. The wall over the fireplace was adorned with some very brilliant scriptural prints, and a portrait of General Washington, drawn and colored in a manner which would certainly have astonished that hero, if ever he had happened to meet with its like.

On a rough bench in the corner, a couple of woolly-headed boys, with glistening black eyes and fat shining cheeks, were busy in superintending the first walking operations of the baby, which, as is usually the case, consisted in getting up on its feet, balancing a moment, and then tumbling down,each successive failure being violently cheered, as something decidedly clever.

A table, somewhat rheumatic in its limbs, was drawn out in front of the fire, and covered with a cloth, displaying cups and saucers of a decidedly brilliant pattern, with other symptoms of an approaching meal. At this table was seated Uncle Tom, Mr. Shelbys best hand, who, as he is to be the hero of our story, we must daguerreotype for our readers. He was a large, broad-chested, powerfully-made man, of a full glossy black, and a face whose truly African features were characterized by an expression of grave and steady good sense, united with much kindliness and benevolence. There was something about his whole air self-respecting and dignified, yet united with a confiding and humble simplicity.

He was very busily intent at this moment on a slate lying before him, on which he was carefully and slowly endeavoring to accomplish a copy of some letters, in which operation he was overlooked by young Masr George, a smart, bright boy of thirteen, who appeared fully to realize the dignity of his position as instructor.

La sakes, now, does it? said Uncle Tom, looking with a respectful, admiring air, as his young teacher flourishingly scrawled qs and gs innumerable for his edification; and then, taking the pencil in his big, heavy fingers, he patiently re-commenced.

How easy white folks alus does things! said Aunt Chloe, pausing while she was greasing a griddle with a scrap of bacon on her fork, and regarding young Master George with pride. The way he can write, now! and read, too! and then to come out here evenings and read his lessons to us,it s mighty interestin!

And with this final expression of contempt for Sallys greenness, Aunt Chloe whipped the cover off the bake-kettle, and disclosed to view a neatly-baked pound-cake, of which no city confectioner need to have been ashamed. This being evidently the central point of the entertainment, Aunt Chloe began now to bustle about earnestly in the supper department.

Here you, Mose and Pete! get out de way, you niggers! Get away, Polly, honey,mammy ll give her baby somefin, by and by. Now, Masr George, you jest take off dem books, and set down now with my old man, and I ll take up de sausages, and have de first griddle full of cakes on your plates in less dan no time.

So you didso you did, honey, said Aunt Chloe, heaping the smoking batter-cakes on his plate; you knowd your old aunty d keep the best for you. O, let you alone for dat! Go way! And, with that, aunty gave George a nudge with her finger, designed to be immensely facetious, and turned again to her griddle with great briskness.

La bless you, Masr George! said Aunt Chloe, with earnestness, catching his arm, you would nt be for cuttin it wid dat ar great heavy knife! Smash all downspile all de pretty rise of it. Here, I ve got a thin old knife, I keeps sharp a purpose. Dar now, see! comes apart light as a feather! Now eat awayyou wont get anything to beat dat ar.

Dem Lincons ant much count, no way! said Aunt Chloe, contemptuously; I mean, set along side our folks. They s spectable folks enough in a kinder plain way; but, as to gettin up anything in style, they dont begin to have a notion on t. Set Masr Lincon, now, alongside Masr Shelby! Good Lor! and Missis Lincon,can she kinder sweep it into a room like my missis,so kinder splendid, yer know! O, go way! dont tell me nothin of dem Lincons!and Aunt Chloe tossed her head as one who hoped she did know something of the world.

So I did, said Aunt Chloe,I may say dat. Good, plain, common cookin, Jinny ll do;make a good pone o bread,bile her taters far,her corn cakes is nt extra, not extra now, Jinnys corn cakes is nt, but then they s far,but, Lor, come to de higher branches, and what can she do? Why, she makes piessartin she does; but what kinder crust? Can she make your real flecky paste, as melts in your mouth, and lies all up like a puff? Now, I went over thar when Miss Mary was gwine to be married, and Jinny she jest showed me de weddin pies. Jinny and I is good friends, ye know. I never said nothin; but go long, Masr George! Why, I should nt sleep a wink for a week, if I had a batch of pies like dem ar. Why, dey want no count t all.

Aunt Chloe sat back in her chair, and indulged in a hearty guffaw of laughter, at this witticism of young Masrs, laughing till the tears rolled down her black, shining cheeks, and varying the exercise with playfully slapping and poking Masr Georgey, and telling him to go way, and that he was a casethat he was fit to kill her, and that he sartin would kill her, one of these days; and, between each of these sanguinary predictions, going off into a laugh, each longer and stronger than the other, till George really began to think that he was a very dangerously witty fellow, and that it became him to be careful how he talked as funny as he could.

Yes, yessartin, said Aunt Chloe, delighted; you ll see. Lor! to think of some of our dinners! Yer mind dat ar great chicken pie I made when we guv de dinner to General Knox? I and Missis, we come pretty near quarrelling about dat ar crust. What does get into ladies sometimes, I dont know; but, sometimes, when a body has de heaviest kind o sponsibility on em, as ye may say, and is all kinder seris and taken up, dey takes dat ar time to be hangin round and kinder interferin! Now, Missis, she wanted me to do dis way, and she wanted me to do dat way; and, finally, I got kinder sarcy, and, says I, Now, Missis, do jist look at dem beautiful white hands o yourn, with long fingers, and all a sparkling with rings, like my white lilies when de dew s on em; and look at my great black stumpin hands. Now, dont ye think dat de Lord must have meant me to make de pie-crust, and you to stay in de parlor? Dar! I was jist so sarcy, Masr George.

Say?why, she kinder larfed in her eyesdem great handsome eyes o hern; and, says she, Well, Aunt Chloe, I think you are about in the right on t, says she; and she went off in de parlor. She oughter cracked me over de head for bein so sarcy; but dar s whar t isI cant do nothin with ladies in de kitchen!

Did nt I? And want I behind de dinin-room door dat bery day? and did nt I see de General pass his plate three times for some more dat bery pie?and, says he, You must have an uncommon cook, Mrs. Shelby. Lor! I was fit to split myself.

And de Gineral, he knows what cookin is, said Aunt Chloe, drawing herself up with an air. Bery nice man, de Gineral! He comes of one of de bery fustest families in Old Virginny! He knows what s what, now, as well as I dode Gineral. Ye see, there s pints in all pies, Masr George; but tant everybody knows what they is, or orter be. But the Gineral, he knows; I knew by his marks he made. Yes, he knows what de pints is!

By this time, Master George had arrived at that pass to which even a boy can come (under uncommon circumstances,) when he really could not eat another morsel and, therefore, he was at leisure to notice the pile of woolly heads and glistening eyes which were regarding their operations hungrily from the opposite corner.

And George and Tom moved to a comfortable seat in the chimney-corner, while Aunt Chloe, after baking a goodly pile of cakes, took her baby on her lap, and began alternately filling its mouth and her own, and distributing to Mose and Pete, who seemed rather to prefer eating theirs as they rolled about on the floor under the table, tickling each other, and occasionally pulling the babys toes.

O! go long, will ye? said the mother, giving now and then a kick, in a kind of general way, under the table, when the movement became too obstreperous. Cant ye be decent when white folks comes to see ye? Stop dat ar, now, will ye? Better mind yerselves, or I ll take ye down a button-hole lower, when Masr George is gone!

Get along wid ye! said the mother, pushing away their woolly heads. Ye ll all stick together, and never get clar, if ye do dat fashion. Go long to de spring and wash yerselves! she said, seconding her exhortations by a slap, which resounded very formidably, but which seemed only to knock out so much more laugh from the young ones, as they tumbled precipitately over each other out of doors, where they fairly screamed with merriment.

Did ye ever see such aggravating young uns? said Aunt Chloe, rather complacently, as, producing an old towel, kept for such emergencies, she poured a little water out of the cracked tea-pot on it, and began rubbing off the molasses from the babys face and hands; and, having polished her till she shone, she set her down in Toms lap, while she busied herself in clearing away supper. The baby employed the intervals in pulling Toms nose, scratching his face, and burying her fat hands in his woolly hair, which last operation seemed to afford her special content.

Aint she a peart young un? said Tom, holding her from him to take a full-length view; then, getting up, he set her on his broad shoulder, and began capering and dancing with her, while Masr George snapped at her with his pocket-handkerchief, and Mose and Pete, now returned again, roared after her like bears, till Aunt Chloe declared that they fairly took her head off with their noise. As, according to her own statement, this surgical operation was a matter of daily occurrence in the cabin, the declaration no whit abated the merriment, till every one had roared and tumbled and danced themselves down to a state of composure.

What we s to do for cheers, now, I declar I dont know, said Aunt Chloe. As the meeting had been held at Uncle Toms weekly, for an indefinite length of time, without any more cheers, there seemed some encouragement to hope that a way would be discovered at present.

Good Lor! get him in it, then, said Mose, and den he d begin, Come saints and sinners, hear me tell, and den down he d go,and Mose imitated precisely the nasal tones of the old man, tumbling on the floor, to illustrate the supposed catastrophe.

During this aside between Mose and Pete, two empty casks had been rolled into the cabin, and being secured from rolling, by stones on each side, boards were laid across them, which arrangement, together with the turning down of certain tubs and pails, and the disposing of the rickety chairs, at last completed the preparation.

The room was soon filled with a motley assemblage, from the old gray-headed patriarch of eighty, to the young girl and lad of fifteen. A little harmless gossip ensued on various themes, such as where old Aunt Sally got her new red headkerchief, and how Missis was a going to give Lizzy that spotted muslin gown, when she d got her new berage made up; and how Masr Shelby was thinking of buying a new sorrel colt, that was going to prove an addition to the glories of the place. A few of the worshippers belonged to families hard by, who had got permission to attend, and who brought in various choice scraps of information, about the sayings and doings at the house and on the place, which circulated as freely as the same sort of small change does in higher circles.

After a while the singing commenced, to the evident delight of all present. Not even all the disadvantage of nasal intonation could prevent the effect of the naturally fine voices, in airs at once wild and spirited. The words were sometimes the well-known and common hymns sung in the churches about, and sometimes of a wilder, more indefinite character, picked up at camp-meetings.

There were others, which made incessant mention of Jordans banks, and Canaans fields, and the New Jerusalem; for the negro mind, impassioned and imaginative, always attaches itself to hymns and expressions of a vivid and pictorial nature; and, as they sung, some laughed, and some cried, and some clapped hands, or shook hands rejoicingly with each other, as if they had fairly gained the other side of the river.

Various exhortations, or relations of experience, followed, and intermingled with the singing. One old gray-headed woman, long past work, but much revered as a sort of chronicle of the past, rose, and leaning on her staff, said

Well, chilen! Well, I m mighty glad to hear ye all and see ye all once more, cause I dont know when I ll be gone to glory; but I ve done got ready, chilen; pears like I d got my little bundle all tied up, and my bonnet on, jest a waitin for the stage to come along and take me home; sometimes, in the night, I think I hear the wheels a rattlin, and I m lookin out all the time; now, you jest be ready too, for I tell ye all, chilen, she said, striking her staff hard on the floor, dat ar glory is a mighty thing! It s a mighty thing, chilen,you donno nothing about it,it s wonderful. And the old creature sat down, with streaming tears, as wholly overcome, while the whole circle struck up

George, who was a bright boy, and well trained in religious things by his mother, finding himself an object of general admiration, threw in expositions of his own, from time to time, with a commendable seriousness and gravity, for which he was admired by the young and blessed by the old; and it was agreed, on all hands, that a minister could nt lay it off better than he did; that t was reely mazin!

Uncle Tom was a sort of patriarch in religious matters, in the neighborhood. Having, naturally, an organization in which the morale was strongly predominant, together with a greater breadth and cultivation of mind than obtained among his companions, he was looked up to with great respect, as a sort of minister among them; and the simple, hearty, sincere style of his exhortations might have edified even better educated persons. But it was in prayer that he especially excelled. Nothing could exceed the touching simplicity, the child-like earnestness, of his prayer, enriched with the language of Scripture, which seemed so entirely to have wrought itself into his being, as to have become a part of himself, and to drop from his lips unconsciously; in the language of a pious old negro, he prayed right up. And so much did his prayer always work on the devotional feelings of his audiences, that there seemed often a danger that it would be lost altogether in the abundance of the responses which broke out everywhere around him.

Mr. Shelby hastily drew the bills of sale towards him, and signed them, like a man that hurries over some disagreeable business, and then pushed them over with the money. Haley produced, from a well-worn valise, a parchment, which, after looking over it a moment, he handed to Mr. Shelby, who took it with a gesture of suppressed eagerness.

Wal, you know, they may blige me, too, said the trader. Howsomever, I ll do the very best I can in gettin Tom a good berth; as to my treatin on him bad, you need nt be a grain afeard. If there s anything that I thank the Lord for, it is that I m never noways cruel.

After the expositions which the trader had previously given of his humane principles, Mr. Shelby did not feel particularly reässured by these declarations; but, as they were the best comfort the case admitted of, he allowed the trader to depart in silence, and betook himself to a solitary cigar.